00Q
by Kryptaria
Summary: Due to an "incident" in the recent past, Q no longer brings explosives to the flat he shares with James Bond. He's had to find other creative ways of dealing with boredom when James is on a mission. At first it's nothing but a pleasant diversion — until James finds out his secret. Who knew one's OTP could cause so many problems? Co-written with BootsnBlossoms!
1. Chapter 1

"... Budgetary considerations aside, our projections for the escalating situation in Southeast Asia..."

Q's attention was wholly focused on the tablet leaning against the conference table. Strategically, he'd chosen the darkest corner of the room, well away from the glowing LED screen that took up the bulk of the far wall. His tablet was on its lowest brightness setting, though he barely needed to look. He could type with one hand while toying with his pen — _How old-fashioned,_ he'd thought upon seeing it and its matching notepad — and no one would be the wiser.

_Fantastic characterization! The descriptions are really good. My only criticism is that the sex wasn't really realistic. Have you read the meta on writing gay sex?_

He blinked at the latest response that came to his personal email and resisted the temptation to respond with far too much detail. God, he hated reader feedback sometimes. Why he bothered posting any of his writing, he had no idea.

Not that he'd ever intended _this_ for a hobby. He actually preferred writing technical documentation. But late at night, after a stressful day (or days) of running missions and dealing with executives and oversight committees, he needed to unwind. He and James had argued more than once over Q's habit of taking work home with him, and he'd finally agreed to find something else to do.

After the mishap with the prototype Dalek he'd built, he agreed to keep his robotics experiments in the lab as well. That left him to fall back on his old hobby of writing, except that science fiction — his true love — was too close to work.

Then, after seeing _The Avengers_ for the fifth time, he'd accidentally stumbled upon fanfiction. It turned out to be the perfect, creative, very-non-work-related outlet. He'd posted a few stories, acquired a coveted invitation to AO3, and was now developing something of a following.

James thought he had an addiction to _Angry Birds_. Q couldn't quite figure out how to explain the truth.

He glanced up at the speaker, estimated that he had at least twenty minutes before the Q&A part of the presentation, and started composing a response to his commenter — though he did remind himself to tone down his ire. There was no sense in being cruel to what was probably a teenage girl.

* * *

Bond didn't exactly know how he had ended up on the floor, staring at the ceiling. It certainly wasn't the result of too much alcohol, or not enough sleep, or the after-effects of being drugged or losing too much blood on a mission. Not only was it ten in the morning; he'd been home for _six fucking days straight_, and all of the more interesting reasons for being on the floor, staring at the ceiling, didn't apply.

He dragged his heels up and put his hands under his head to start doing sit-ups. Since he was here, he figured he might as well take advantage of the situation to keep his stomach muscles in prime condition.

Had he done it on purpose, this meaningless collapse on the floor? Had his back been hurting? Had he dropped something? Bond huffed as he sat up, feeling the burn of exertion, trying to remember.

Oh. _Oh_. He wanted to use Q's shiny silver computer in their office, and had been looking under the desk for a tower so he could turn it on. When no tower had revealed itself, he'd rolled onto his back in frustration, and, thanks to excruciating boredom, had starting counting cracks in the ceiling.

Apparently, that sort of mindless distraction was just the sort of thing to "bluescreen" (as Q called the act of staring into space) even James Bond.

Silver computer. Wireless keyboard and mouse. No tower. Single white cord leading to the wall's power outlet from the back of the monitor.

Seven sit-ups later, he remembered it was a Mac. No tower. All-in-one.

_Bloody things._

On principle, he didn't actually stand up just yet. He gave himself another fourteen sit-ups before he felt he'd more than justified his accidental prone position, and he rolled up to his feet. He pulled out the ridiculous chair that Q favoured for his home workstation — a curved, backless thing that was supposed to help keep the user in good posture — and wrestled with it for a few minutes before he finally sent it across the room in annoyance. He went to the kitchen table to fetch a chair and then returned more determined than ever to find something interesting to stave off the murderous boredom that came from being stuck in the flat for too-bloody-many days in a row.

After extensive searching, Bond finally found the power button on the back of the screen. The computer took only a second to come alive, and Bond realised it must have been sleeping instead of powered down. He stared at the lock screen for only a second before he started typing in Q's most likely usernames and passwords.

It took less than thirty seconds to find the right combination. Bond might not have been a proper genius with computers — not like Q — but he knew _people_.

Q's Stark Industries wallpaper appeared, which made Bond grin. He had a moment of frustrated, random clicking before an accidental swipe of the mouse revealed a taskbar that had been hidden on the left side of the screen.

Hidden among more esoteric icons, Bond spotted the Chrome logo, and clicked it. Immediately, the web browser filled the giant screen, pre-loading with almost a dozen tabs.

Bond grinned wickedly and started clicking through them. His lover wouldn't settle for anything nearly so boring as news feeds, weather reports, or recipe websites, and Bond hadn't had anything in particular in mind. He was just killing time; exploring Q's pre-opened tabs was an excellent potential diversion.

He had an array of colourful places to visit, including, Bond read as he scanned, Google Docs, an unfamiliar Gmail account, .uk, Archive of Our Own, and Tumblr.

He skipped the docs and gmail accounts for now and instead started with London Gay Man, curious about the site. He knew better than to think Q was looking for opportunities for, or indulging in, cheating — not only did Q lack the free time for that sort of thing, Bond trusted him. His faith was rewarded when he discovered that the site was dedicated mostly to a broader and more news-like approach to being LGBT while living in London. That was curious; Bond had no idea that Q was interested in political issues, outside the international politics of MI6.

Bond clicked on the next tab, which was the profile page of someone called JARVIS-2.0. Curious, he scanned the list of what appeared to be stories, all of them about _Avengers_ characters engaging in high adventure and, apparently, lots of gay sex. It took Bond a bit of exploration to understand that these were unauthorised stories about the characters — obviously, given some of the story descriptions. He couldn't quite see the children's comic industry approving of some of the more interesting, esoteric things he found.

While he wouldn't have guessed Q the type to read self-published work like this, he wasn't surprised at all. It was a little like hacking stories instead of tech.

It took him a deplorably long moment to notice the login information in the upper right hand corner, welcoming JARVIS-2.0 to the site. Apparently Q wasn't just a consumer of the stories; he was actually _writing_ them.

Bond sat back in surprise, staring at the screen for a moment. The initial shock of the discovery passed very quickly, however, and Bond realised that he really _wasn't_ surprised. It was kind of cute, actually.

Deciding he'd come back to explore the reading list more thoroughly, after he'd had more time to process, Bond clicked on the next tab: Tumblr.

Then the first image loaded, and once again, Bond couldn't do anything but sit back in surprise and stare.

* * *

Q was nearly an hour late, soaked to the bone, and carrying a bag of what had, thirty-five minutes ago, been lovely Indian takeaway and was now probably congealed into something better suited for chemical experimentation. He let himself into the flat, dropped the bag on the foyer floor, and started to extract himself from acres of wet wool. Much as he loved James, he didn't understand what was wrong with his old parka; it was waterproof, windproof, warm, and _light_. Who cared if he looked like a stray twelve-year-old? The overcoat James had bought him was a glorious tribute to centuries of classic English tailoring that felt like it weighed a hundred kilos when wet. And it smelled like sheep. _Wet_ sheep.

"I brought dinner!" he yelled, trying to confine the drips to the mat. "It's horrid, but it used to be food!"

Bond came out from their bedroom, an oddly puckish grin on his face. He'd been discontent since the end of his last mission, and while he hadn't been in a foul mood, a bored Bond was a dangerous one — to anyone but Q.

Now, Bond walked right to Q to help free him from the peacoat, though his efficiency was somewhat hampered by the way he kept pausing to slide his hands over Q's clothes as he pulled the wool away. "I'm sure the microwave can give the takeaway new life," he said in a voice that indicated that Bond's mind was, in fact, far away from dinner. He hung up the coat and stepped back with the same grin. "I'll get a towel for you while you reheat?"

"Please," Q said, relieved. He still felt half-drowned, but he could breathe easier without the coat. As Bond walked away, Q picked up the bag and called, "You'd give me a discount if I asked you to eliminate the management efficiency contractor who's in this week, wouldn't you? You could do a bit of freelance work on the side!"

"You'd know I'd be happy to, Q, but the sad fact is that those people are like ants at a picnic. Squash one, and the rest overwhelm you," Bond called from the bathroom. He returned a moment later, towel in hand, as Q was unpacking boxes onto the counter. "They make good target practice, though."

"See? Target-rich environment," Q said, smiling. "And it's job security. Help fill the boring downtime between missions." He hesitated, debating the merits of plates versus the towel, and finally chose the towel, mostly because eliminating the water dripping from his hair meant he could steal a kiss. The idea of that kiss, in fact, had kept him sane through much of the interminable presentation on operational synergy and inter-departmental cooperation and focus groups. God, he hated consultants.

Bond dropped the towel over Q's head and proceeded to ruffle his hair with it, chuckling affectionately. Once he'd managed to absorb most of the water from Q's hair, he pulled away the towel with a flourish and dropped it on the counter. "Would you be offended if I said you're absolutely adorable like this?" he said, pulling Q into his arms.

Q got rid of his glasses — the rain had spotted the lenses, and he needed to clean them anyway — and buried his face against Bond's neck, feeling the tension start to ease from his back and shoulders. "I will happily go stand out in the rain with you for hours, if that's what you'd like," he offered, taking advantage of proximity to press a kiss under Bond's ear. "God, I missed you. I kept thinking of ways you could end the presentation early. I know how you love explosives."

Bond held Q close and hummed deeply enough that Q could feel the vibration in his chest. "You should have called or texted. I'm sure I could have arranged something for you," he said with another quiet laugh. Then he tipped up Q's face to give him the kiss he so desperately needed.

Selfishly, Q couldn't help but feel relief that another day had passed without a critical emergency that required Bond to go out in the field. He gave in to the kiss, toes curling in his wet dress shoes, thinking that he'd need to find a creative way to help Bond forget all about being trapped in London between jobs.

"It's Thursday," he said a bit breathlessly when Bond finally let the kiss end. "We can leave town tomorrow. Go away for the weekend."

"Absolutely," Bond said in a deliciously low voice. "Any preferences for a destination? Somewhere with internet, I'm sure." He released Q with one last ruffle of his hair. "Wine, beer, or something stronger with dinner?"

"Do vodka and curry mix well?" Q asked hopefully, hiding his sigh as Bond released his strong embrace. If they didn't get the food into the microwave, they'd end up eating crisps for dinner, so Q turned back to getting plates. "And we can go anywhere. I won't die without internet, if you keep me sufficiently distracted."

Bond opened the freezer to retrieve the Stoli Elit that Alec had brought back with him from his latest trip to Russia. "Vodka goes with anything," Bond assured him. He set the bottle on the kitchen table and went to stand behind Q, who was opening the cupboard for dishes. Bond pressed himself, from instep to temple, along Q's body. Under the pretence of reaching for a glass, Bond applied just enough pressure to send Q's thoughts scattering in wicked directions. "I think I can keep you distracted, don't you?"

Giving up on the plates — they did, after all, have a perfectly good bag of crisps in the cupboard — Q leaned back against Bond, loving the strength in his body. "I think you can, yes. In fact, I think you should find a way to... oh, arrange a toxic chemical accident, requiring me to take off work tomorrow."

"The best part of that plan is that absolutely no one would be surprised or dare question what the hell I was doing. It's their own damn fault for not starting a land war somewhere just to give me something productive to do." Bond turned Q and lifted him up onto the counter.

Q kicked Bond — not hard enough to hurt, though he privately doubted he was even capable of kicking that hard. "We've talked about sex on the counters," he mock-complained. Secretly, one of his favourite memories was of the kitchen at his tiny old flat, even if it had ended with Q getting three stitches in his scalp when Bond got a little too enthusiastic.

_This_ kitchen had an island. With no upper cupboards. Clever Bond.

Bond hummed again but didn't reply, apparently too busy with Q's neck to bother. He kissed and licked and bit and sucked, hands carefully wrapped around Q's head to prevent any accidental cupboard encounters. Bond's thumb rubbed against the scar, either to remind himself to be careful, or to recapture the memory of that frankly fantastic evening. Well, fantastic _before_ the stitches, of course. Though Bond had been ridiculously attentive afterward, not allowing Q out of bed for anything more than a bathroom run.

But before Q could propose switching over to the island, his stomach let out a growling protest that set off Bond's deeply hidden protect-and-provide instincts, ending the kiss far too soon. As Bond murmured something about reheating dinner, Q hid his sigh and dropped down off the counter, wet shoes splatting against the tile floor. Six months ago, he would never have guessed Bond to even acknowledge such human weaknesses as hunger and fatigue, but more often than not, he was the one herding Q to bed or trying to feed him every time his stomach so much as rumbled. He was like a particularly murderous lion, protecting his pride. Or lioness, Q thought with a grin, remembering a nature documentary that stated the male lions were the lazy ones, leaving all the real work to the females.

Instead of complaining, Q poured two generous measures of vodka while Bond handled microwaving the curry into something edible. "I'll change into something dry," Q said, pausing to kiss Bond one last time before he picked up his glass and went into the bedroom. Outside, rain was lashing the windows with brutal force, and Q shivered just hearing it. Before Bond, this would've been a night for flannel pyjamas, thick blankets, and a laptop on the sofa. Now, Q decided pants and a T-shirt would be more than enough to encourage cuddling for warmth.

After all, Bond wasn't the only manipulative bastard in the relationship. Q could hold his own.

* * *

Bond smiled to himself as he heated the food. He'd never thought himself the type for a long-term relationship, given his lifestyle and the spectacularly insane weight of _issues_ that had him waking up screaming far too many nights in a row. Even if a potential partner managed to weather Bond's near constant absence, the PTSD nightmares usually were the final straw.

But somehow, beyond all expectation, Q had managed to sneak past all of Bond's defences. He never complained about Bond's sometimes months-long missions, and — even more telling — never chastised Bond for complaining when he was stuck in London too long.

But now Bond had some idea of how Q passed his time when he was alone and bored. He thought about the explicit sex scenes that Q had written and chuckled to himself as he recognised some of his own better moves beautifully recreated with Q's own words. Oddly enough, however, it wasn't the sex that Bond found most interesting. It was the relationship development.

Bond had seen _The Avengers_ enough times, snuggled next to Q on the couch or in bed, that he knew the characters well. But Q hadn't chosen the fantasy relationship Bond might have expected him to: Tony Stark and Steve Rogers — the technical genius and the soldier. That would have made sense to Bond, at least. Instead, Q favoured Tony Stark and Bruce Banner — the technical genius and his intellectual match.

It stung a little, though Bond refused to let himself think of it as a twinge of insecurity. Bond was nothing like Banner; he was proficient in chemicals insofar as he could blow up things without having to think about it too hard. But that was where his knowledge ended. As much as he didn't want to wonder if that was _really_ what Q wanted in a relationship — an intellectual equal — he couldn't help but feel a slowly growing tide of uneasiness at the thought.

He should just ask about it, he decided. Admit that he'd discovered Q's secret hobby and ask what it was about the Stark/Banner relationship that had him favouring it over the Stark/Rogers one that made more sense to Bond.

As he set the heated plates down on the table, Bond admitted to himself that he probably wouldn't.

Q came out of the bedroom, glass in hand — not much diminished — in just a T-shirt and boxer-briefs. He smiled, and though Bond searched, he could see no reticence or dissatisfaction at all in the expression. Instead of going to his chair, he walked around to Bond's and leaned in to brush a kiss over his ear, feather-light. "Why don't we take this to the couch?" he proposed softly. "You don't want me to freeze, do you?"

"That would be remiss of me, wouldn't it?" Bond replied, feeling some of the tension in his chest ease. He stood and picked up the plates, careful to balance them so the silverware wouldn't fall on the way to the living room. He'd come back for his drink in a minute — or not at all, if Q decided to hang on tight the moment Bond sat down. It was, he decided, a fair trade. "Grab the quilt?"

With a wicked grin that implied Bond wouldn't be seeing his drink any time soon, Q went to the living room long enough to set his drink — or theirs, now — down on the endtable. Then he ran to the bedroom, bare feet loud on the hardwood floor.

Five minutes later, they were wrapped around one another, quilt tangled over their legs, both of them eating off Bond's plate only because he insisted on feeding Q between kisses. Shared meals had the effect of keeping Bond's weight steady between missions and ensuring that Q got _some_ food. He couldn't live on sex and computers alone, despite his efforts. _And writing_, Bond added mentally.

"Did you want to watch something, or is the telly just on for noise?" Q asked. He took advantage of Bond's new freedom after his plate, now empty, went onto the coffee table, and swarmed over Bond, long limbs flailing to keep from dislodging the blanket.

Bond caught Q's leg by the knee before it had the chance to land somewhere that would cut his plans for the evening painfully short and tugged Q into a more comfortable sprawl over him and under the blanket. "You know I don't particularly care," Bond said with amusement as he ran his hands up Q's back. "You can watch anything you like, so long as it doesn't require you getting up." He tightened his arms pre-emptively, and wondered if he was a coward for not suggesting _The Avengers_ as an opening gambit for the conversation he wasn't particularly inclined to have.

Q's eyes took on a sharp, sly light. He reached out for a remote control that was only marginally less complex than a submarine's conn and set it in Bond's hand. "Find us something, love, will you?" he asked in that sweet, innocent voice of his as he curled up against Bond's body, head resting suspiciously low on his chest. One hand 'happened' to curl over Bond's thigh, just high enough to be distracting.

Bond knew that buffering issues, accompanied by sudden silence and a glaring red screen, had the unfortunate side-effect of distracting Q, so Bond chose to navigate to their movie server instead of Netflix.

As soon as he started paging through the file menu, Q's hand slid up as he curled up into an even tighter ball — sliding down Bond's body as he did, until his head was pillowed against Bond's hip. There was nothing innocent at all at the way he writhed, like a cat trying to get comfortable, and ended up pushing up Bond's T-shirt so long strands of slightly damp hair tickled over his abdomen.

"Sorry, love," Q apologised sweetly, turning to replace the silken touch of hair with the slight rasp of stubble before he pressed his lips to Bond's skin.

Bond had _no idea_ what submenu he managed to select, as his eyes had been securely shut so he could focus on the feeling of Q's warm mouth and breath on his skin. He reached down to slide a hand through Q's hair, focusing on not rolling his hips suggestively. He dropped the remote by Q's hand on his hip, and let his newly free fingers guide Q's face into being tipped up enough for eye contact. "I can't kiss you when you're down there," he said in what he hoped was a convincing voice.

"Strange," Q mused, twisting a bit more. For someone who considered typing to be strenuous physical exercise, he was in very good shape — and very flexible. He managed to turn around completely, knees against the back of the couch, head now pillowed on Bond's thigh, all without dumping the blankets. He nudged Bond's shirt up with his nose and flicked his tongue over bare skin before he shot Bond another of his innocent, angelic smiles and kissed — chastely — right where he'd licked. "I don't seem to be having that problem at all."

Bond let his hand fall from Q's face just long enough to reach down and stab at the remote. When no sound came from the telly as proof of success, he picked up the remote and turned to look at the menu long enough to locate the "Resume Last Movie Played" option. He pressed the enter button perhaps a bit harder than was actually necessary, and tossed the remote on the table when he was rewarded with the screen coming to life.

Of course, it _had_ to be the bloody _Avengers_ movie, about halfway through, when Stark was poking at Banner in the lab on the helicarrier. Bond groaned and let his head fall back, knowing that Q would interpret it as a sign of lust brought on by Q's actions.

Sure enough, Q laughed, breath warm against Bond's skin, and Bond couldn't help but feel a vindictive sense of triumph when Q nudged his shirt up a bit more and started tracing lines with his tongue, rather than twisting around to watch his pairing of choice. He inched over a bit more, got one arm around Bond's waist, and let out a thoughtful, "Hmm."

As soon as Bond looked down, and they made eye-contact, Q deliberately licked again, pressing his tongue flat to Bond's abdomen before he pulled up, curling the tip back to draw out the touch.

"Aren't you overdressed?" Q hinted, no longer playing at false innocence.

Glad that he'd got rid of the ridiculously over-engineered bit of plastic that was the remote control so it wouldn't be sent flying, Bond pulled off his shirt. "So picky about states of dress," he said with mock exasperation. He unbuckled his belt and carefully pulled it free from his trousers. "I hope you plan on keeping me warm to compensate."

Q propped up his weight on his hand, giving Bond enough room to undo his trousers. "And entertained," he said, breaking eye-contact to scan Bond's chest with every sign of admiration and desire. "I wouldn't want you associating being home in London with the sort of crushing boredom you endured before I found you."

"Such a noble sacrifice for queen and country," Bond said with a chuckle. He unbuttoned and unzipped his trousers and lifted to slide them down. As soon as his trousers were at thigh-level, Q ducked his head and licked right along the waistband of Bond's pants, exhaling warm breath through the fabric.

This time Bond's groan had nothing to do with fictional characters and everything to do with Q's patented ability to distract. His hand tightened in Q's hair without conscious direction. "Fuck, Q."

Q laughed, backing up with a smile that barely pretended to be innocent. "Sorry. Did I interrupt?" he asked, twisting to look over his shoulder. After watching the telly for a moment, he huffed and muttered, "Bureaucracy. See?"

"Bureaucracy," Bond repeated. He cast a glance at the screen where Steve, Tony, and Bruce were bantering. "Right." He didn't care if the characters on screen started to strip and dance — there wasn't anything that could happen on the screen right now that could take his eyes away from Q.

With a nod, Q turned back to face Bond and trailed his free hand down Bond's chest. He seemed suddenly distracted; his playful smile faded. "You have _no idea_ what I've found in some of our archives, James..." He hooked his finger in the waistband of Bond's pants. Instead of pulling them down, though, he slid his finger to the side, toying with the elastic.

Suddenly, the electricity between them seemed to dissipate, like a flash of lightning without the thunder. Q had been in meetings all day today. He hadn't been poking around in the archives. So he'd found something — previous Q Branch projects, most likely — earlier this week or last week or last bloody month, and hadn't said a word to Bond about it. Because Q didn't think he was smart enough to understand?

The dissonance between Q's life with Bond and his fantasy of writing — genius-and-genius — froze the last of Bond's interest.

"Oh?" Bond asked, the sensual slide of his hand through Q's hair turning into an affectionate ruffle. He swallowed back a sigh and traced his thumb along Q's jaw. "What did you find?"

Q's hesitation was like a knife in the gut. Frowning, Q shook his head and said, "I can't — Your security clearance..." He closed his eyes for a moment before he sat up a bit, to rest his cheek against Bond's chest. He worked his hands between the cushions and Bond's back to hold him close. "It's very complicated."

Bond nodded, trying to hide his reaction. He shifted so he could lean towards the table and pick up the previously abandoned glass. "Well, I'm sure Danielle or TJ will be excellent to have the conversation with." He took a drink and looked away from Q's odd expression and towards the telly.

"Your clearance is higher than theirs," Q said, sounding baffled. Awkwardly, he let go of Bond. His previous grace appeared to have abandoned him; he kicked and thrashed, fighting the blanket as he twisted around to sit up. "Unless you go into the executive programme — and no, I'm not saying you should, though god knows the meetings would be less boring..." He shook his head and pulled up his legs, wrapping one arm around them. With the other, he tugged the blanket over Bond's lap as though hiding the fact that he'd stopped in the middle of undressing.

"Well, perhaps there is a Bruce Banner out there to your Tony Stark," Bond said with a chuckle that wasn't even slightly honest. Q flinched, turning to give Bond a shocked look. "Perhaps your MI5 counterpart. Though I doubt their labs are anywhere near as impressive as Q Branch."

"What?" Q asked, his voice quiet and tight. He drew in on himself even more, in a way he hadn't done since their earliest days together, when he was still tense and anxious about his age and the pressures of his job and the disbelief that Bond would want anything to do with him.

"Another genius more suitable to participating in your plans for whatever you learned about in the archives." Bond was sinking into detachment now as he struggled with the incredibly painful notion that Q could leave him. _Would_ leave him, for someone closer to his intellectual level. He finished off the last of the vodka and stood to refill it, tugging his trousers back up.

He could feel Q staring at him in silence as he left the living room to go back to the kitchen, but he couldn't bring himself to turn back and offer reassurances he didn't feel.

Yes, it was definitely time for more vodka.


	2. Chapter 2

Q stared after Bond, wondering what the hell had just happened. Did Bond know? Was he a bloody mind reader? God, Q had heard such accusations floating around MI6, but the very thought was ridiculous. Now, though, Q had to wonder — not if Bond had some mad psychic power, but really... How good was he at reading people?

For months, they'd been inching towards a relationship that Q had finally started to believe was something real. Something... well, as close to 'permanent' as someone like Bond would ever permit.

That had to be it. Bond knew what Q wanted — what he'd been thinking about for weeks now — and this was his way of putting a stop to it before Q could even say a single word, let alone try to make his case.

The thought sparked the first hint of anger deep inside Q, burning through the wounded paralysis that had kept him from following. He stood and momentarily debated the warmth of the quilt versus the hit to his dignity if he trailed after Bond like a child who'd got out of bed with a nightmare. Then again, he was half-dressed, so 'dignity' was meaningless. He pulled up the blanket to keep from tripping and cracking his skull on the coffee table, took a deep breath, and went after his avoid-the-problem-and-it-will-go-away lover.

Bond was at the table, hand wrapped around the glass he'd left there when he'd carried the plates out to the couch. He picked it up when he saw Q approaching, and smiled behind the glass at Q. "Too fucking adorable, Q. I'm tempted to scoop you up and toss you into the pillows."

A little of the irritation thawed at the display of Bond's hidden affectionate side. Before their relationship, Q had pictured Bond to be nothing more than a brutal predator, a force of nature that would destroy everything it touched no matter how gently. He'd never been so delighted to be entirely wrong.

But Bond was the fighter — not Q — and Q's courage faltered under the temptation of ignoring this momentary... _glitch_. With a smile and a little flirtation and some definite hinting, he could bring Bond back to the couch or to the bed, and he'd be able to pretend, for a little while, that nothing had changed.

Of course, then nothing _would_ change.

So he resisted the temptation, took another breath, and considered just how to say what he'd wanted to say for so long. But at the last moment, he hesitated. To buy himself time, he instead asked, "What did you mean, 'another genius'?"

Bond's smile faded, and he took a deep drink of the vodka. He leaned back against the kitchen counter and folded his arms over his chest, watching Q somewhat sadly. "I'm not even close to your intellectual equal, Q. You can't share a large part of your work — your passion — with me, because I won't understand. But if you had someone around who could..." Bond shrugged and went back to drinking.

The tiny, practical, calculating, part of Q's mind — a part that was always on — was relieved that Q hadn't actually said what he was thinking. The rest of him, though, was too busy falling apart at the terrifying thought that Bond was _ending_ things.

God, he'd known all along that this was too good to be true. Bond was too perfect to want anything to do with someone like Q. He could have anyone he chose, male or female. Q took a breath, trying to find words that didn't involve pleading or arguing, because his mind had already jumped to the end. Oh, he could try and stave it off for a time, but there was no point in prolonging their misery. If Bond wanted out, better to step aside and let him leave before destroying their working relationship. There was no reason to subject either of them to the sort of messy emotional scene that would be so entertaining when the rumours got out.

"Don't," Bond said softly, setting his drink down and walking up to Q to pull him into his arms. "Whatever you're thinking, it's not accurate. Unless you actually _want_ to leave me behind to shag a genius instead. Which I'd understand."

_What?_

The sudden confusion cut through the pain — the _emptiness_ — in Q, burning it away. He twisted free, staring at Bond, and backed away, stepping on the blanket. He kicked and hit the wall painfully with one shoulder, and the sudden physical jolt gave him the voice to demand, "What the _hell_?"

"Why Tony Stark and Bruce Banner?" Bond said, no trace of amusement anywhere in his voice or expression. "Why not Tony Stark and Steve Rogers?"

Q got halfway through repeating his question before he realised what Bond was implying. What he was _saying_. He felt his face go hot, and the urge to flee the room became nearly overwhelming, but he was a bloody MI6 branch director; he could stand up to anyone, even a damned assassin. Who apparently, _impossibly_, knew his secret.

He reminded himself of everything he'd accomplished. He was brilliant and strong-willed and not easily intimidated, and he'd be _damned_ before he let Bond use his writing — his _private_ writing — as ammunition in this of all things.

"What _precisely_ do they have to do with _us_?" he demanded icily.

Uncharacteristically, Bond seemed to flinch against the question and the tone. He stepped away from Q, back to the counter and back to his drink. "The genius and the genius, or the genius and soldier." Bond shook his head sadly. "How would Rogers even stand a chance against Banner?"

A little dizzy from the emotional whiplash, Q stared at Bond, struggling to see where this was going. His strength was in organisation, logic, and technology; Bond was the one who did _people_. And apparently, against all logic, fictional pairings.

"Are... Are we having a _shipping war_?" he finally asked, thinking that he must have missed not just one but several clues somewhere along the way. That or he was too sober. Or both.

"A what?" Bond asked, raising his head to stare curiously at Q. "Whatever that means, I don't think that's what we're doing. I'd rather make love, not war — at least when it comes to you," he said with a smirk.

"Then what the _hell_ do you care?" Q demanded, before another possibility — an incredibly _unlikely_ possibility — came to mind. Bond's talk of Q shagging a genius... He flinched again and asked, "Is this — Do you want to start seeing other people?"

Bond's gaze turned dark. "Absolutely not," he said emphatically. "If you need more than what I can offer — and I'd understand if you do — then... you'll need to end things with me first. I don't share."

"Then why are _you_ bringing it up —" He cut off, trying to put together Bond's bizarre references. Genius, Banner, Rogers... Maybe it wasn't someone for _Q_. Maybe Bond had found someone — someone from Q Branch or one of the field agents or even someone in an allied intelligence service.

Once, in the beginning, they'd discussed Bond's promiscuity on missions. Q had been quick to reassure Bond that there was a clear line between work and fidelity. As far as Q was concerned, he'd rather Bond shag a dozen agents, enemies or allies, if it meant he'd come home safe. He'd _thought_ that he was the only one who Bond loved, but maybe he was wrong. Emotion followed no logical rules, after all. Bond's missions could last for weeks or months. Proximity, adrenaline, the trust that came with a life-or-death situation... A man like Bond didn't want someone safe and boring to come home to.

"Oh, god," he said in sudden understanding. He backed up, pressing against the wall, and was suddenly glad for the blanket that hid the way his fists clenched. "It's Felix, isn't it?"

Bond's expression shifted into confusion as he looked at Q. "What does Felix have to do with anything?" Then understanding seemed to dawn, and Bond shook his head in horror. "Christ, Q. No. _No._ Absolutely not. I don't want anyone but you."

"Then why do you want to end _us_?" he asked, too confused and hurt and disoriented to hold the agonising words back. Just speaking them made it feel _real_.

"I don't," Bond said quickly. He straightened from the counter to look at Q, then took a step forward before seeming to think better of it. "It's just... I read your stories. And Bruce Banner I'm not."

Q suppressed the urge to flinch with embarrassment. He should've known better than to think he could keep those stories secret — especially since they weren't so much _secret_ as they were private. It wasn't quite that he was ashamed of them so much as... well, he didn't know how to _explain_ them.

"My writing..." he began a bit unsteadily. Then he shook his head, blinking furiously. "You _don't_ want to leave me? Or want me to leave?" he corrected, falling back on technical accuracy; the flat was in Bond's name, after all.

"God, no," Bond said, closing his eyes. "I don't think I could... I don't know what I'd... No." He set his glass down and this time didn't hesitate to take a step forward towards Q. "You're everything that means anything to me, Q. But I'm not smart enough for you. I'm not even close to being your intellectual equal."

Even if he'd wanted to, Q couldn't have hid the way he leaned against the wall, shaky with sudden relief. "Then _why_?" he asked faintly, closing his eyes.

"You don't idolise a relationship like ours — the genius and the soldier. You idolise a relationship that I can't give you, where both partners can work on Q Branch archive problems together."

Q pushed off the wall and made his way to the kitchen table and sat before his legs gave out. "God, James," he said, propping his elbows on the table so he could bury his face in his hands. "I thought we could fix your bloody security clearance issues by getting married, you idiot."

There was silence at first — nothing but the hum of the refrigerator and the sounds of London outside slipping in through the windows. "Married?" Bond said at last.

Hiding his flinch, Q shook his head as much as he could without lifting his head from his hands. "Forget I mentioned it." He took a deep breath, trying not to be disappointed. After all, this wasn't unexpected — which was why he hadn't planned on bringing it up. Ever.

"I've just never thought..." Bond started. "Me? You'd want to marry _me_?"

Q closed his eyes for a long moment, struggling to maintain control of his emotions. He fell back onto the crutch of logic, saying, "MI6 security clearance grants an exemption to a spouse or civil partner for all but the highest levels of classification."

"You could be happy with me?" Bond asked, voice reserved. "Forever? Even though I'm not clever enough to keep up with you?"

"The _only_ time your intelligence has ever failed to impress me is when you chose the most irrational physical course of action possible — most often involving such things as motorcycles and rooftops. And _now_," he added harshly, flinching at his own tone.

Bond finally took the last few steps to stand next to Q. He stood silently there for a long, tense moment before he let out a breath, deflating entirely. He reached down to place his cold, bare hands on Q's upper arms. Then he knelt down to be at eye level with Q.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly. "I just didn't understand."

Q shook his head, refusing to look at Bond. "It's fine. You don't want to settle down. I know that. I've always known that. Everyone told me so, and it's still fine."

"Are you kidding?" Bond said quietly, reaching up to stroke at Q's jawline with his thumb. "A lifetime with you? You, who put up with me? Where do I sign up?"

Suspicious, Q looked at him. "I've always known you _wouldn't_ want a commitment, James. I came into this with my eyes open. You don't have to do anything just so I'll stay."

"What makes you think that?" Bond asked softly. "I've tried for it in the past, Q. Gave up everything for someone I thought I..." He cut off, thankfully. Q was sick to death about thinking of Lynd and avoiding talking about her and having his colleagues whisper warnings about her in his ears. Bond cleared his throat. "And you're so, so much better than she ever was."

Q ignored his reflex to snap at the comparison, because there was no basis for it — starting with the fact that he wasn't a traitor and ending with the thought that Bond was his _lover_, not his target. Reminding himself that hindsight had nothing to do with what Bond had suffered, Q turned to look at Bond. "Marriage practical but unnecessary. I know that you love me, and I really don't give a damn what anyone else thinks," he said, reaching out to take Bond's hand.

"Tell yourself what you like, Q," Bond said, a grin starting to slip over his face as he squeezed Q's hand. "I'm going to pretend that the practicality of it has only the smallest bearing on your request."

For once in his life, Q managed to restrain the instinct to offer an escape from what could all too easily become a complicated, uncomfortable disaster. Since he'd discovered boys at age twelve and girls at fourteen, he'd consistently proven terrible at dating — terrible enough that he'd started doing the _opposite_ of what he wanted, at least when it came to 'talks'. To his mild surprise, the tactic had worked beautifully.

So instead of verbally retreating, he pressed for clarity and asked, "Then you _want_ to?"

"Absolutely," Bond said without hesitation. "Though I hope you know," he added cautiously, "it won't change the things I sometimes have to do for my job."

Q shook his head again, a faint spark of excitement flaring to life somewhere under the anxiety and stress. "My feelings on that haven't changed. I would much rather have you come back to me, no matter what that requires. But you don't —" He faltered, wishing he'd caught himself three words earlier.

"What?" Bond encouraged, bringing Q's knuckles up to brush his mouth against the soft skin there.

"You don't have to," Q said, turning in the chair to fully face him. He held Bond's hand more tightly. "Not that I don't want to — I do — but only if it's what _you_ want."

Bond laughed quietly but honestly. "Well," he started, stepping up from his crouch to sit in the chair next to Q. It took a particularly impressive twist and use of leg muscle to accomplish the feat without letting go of Q's hand, but he managed. "I can think of several good reasons why an actual binding legal document would be useful — not the least of which is that you'd get to keep my flat and possessions in the event that I temporarily die again. Do you have any idea how much easier that would make resurrection?"

Q swallowed against the sudden lump in his throat, and he pulled Bond close despite their awkward positions. "God, I love you. You know —" he began, before he remembered one of the more absurd things Bond had said. "Rogers? _Rogers?_"

Bond blinked in surprise. "What?"

"You're not an idiot, you know. Well, except with _that_. Steve Rogers? You? Really, James? How could you _possibly_ compare yourself to that timeworn, morally crippled relic? Don't you have any _idea_ how brilliant you actually are?"

The surprised expression didn't leave Bond's face as he leaned away from Q to more fully meet his gaze. "Old-school soldier with a desperate desire to do anything he can for his country?" He shook his head. "Occasionally dead and, yes, timeworn does seem to cover it."

Q huffed in irritation. "You lack the spangly costume. And you _don't_ blindly follow orders, except that one time you were running a fever and I made the mistake of asking you for toast and you nearly burned down the kitchen." He pulled his hand free so he could cup Bond's face and kiss his cheek. "You're more like Banner than you know. I can _talk_ to you, James, and even if you don't understand, you ask. You respond. And thank god you don't ask stupid questions. I don't care if you don't have a degree in science. You're intellectually challenging and you can think faster than anyone I know, and that's part of how I know you'll always find your way back to me."

"My god," Bond said with a crooked grin. "You really are a romantic, aren't you?"

With a sudden, confused blink, Q said, "I never said I _want_ you in a spangly costume. In fact, I'll drag you to Medical for another psych analysis if you ever try."

With a laugh and a tug on Q's arm, Bond stood. "You know, I spent some time on Tumblr today. Did you know that I actually can draw a little?"

"You —" Q started, before _that_ all came crashing back into his memory. He didn't stand; he cringed just a little bit, looking away as the blush returned in full force. "Oh, god," he muttered, closing his eyes and wondering if he'd be lucky enough for a sinkhole to open up under his chair. It was unlikely, given that they were on the top floor of the building, but he _hoped_.

"Yes, me," Bond said with a laugh. "I was thinking I'd try my hand at it. I don't know how boring sex must be for a lot of those artists, but they don't seem to be able to capture a sex face very well. The men look intent or watchful rather than" — he grinned down at Q — "appropriately distracted or... engaged. I bet I could do better."

"Oh, god," Q repeated. "If you read — _You were on my computer!_" he realised, standing abruptly, quilt tangling around his legs. "Oh, god, what did you break? Did you stop any of my background processes?"

Bond took advantage of Q's sudden vertical state to tug him towards the bedroom. "Have a little faith," he chastised with what would have passed for an offended look if Q didn't know him so well. "I was sick of counting cracks in the ceiling and doing sit-ups, so I opened your web browser. If you didn't want me to be able to get in it, you shouldn't have chosen such an obvious password."

"Biometrics," Q muttered, finally abandoning the quilt before it could tangle up even more and make him fall. He had no fear of breaking his neck; Bond had the reflexes of a cobra and would catch him, and then he'd be insufferably smug about saving him. For days.

At the office doorway, though, he paused and looked in at his computer. It _seemed_ fine, but looks were deceptive. Bond had been in there, in Q's accounts, with all of his open tabs. And while the coding sites wouldn't have been of any interest, he'd seen not only the fics but his Tumblr blog, his Twitter feed, and the email he used for feedback.

He was suddenly tempted to ask just how much Bond had read, but he couldn't. He didn't dare. Writing was a secret indulgence, and while every line of Q's code was elegant and balanced and _perfect_, his writing was flawed. He always doubted his plots and characterisation, and no matter how much research he did, he always missed some critical detail that a more obsessed fan picked up. And he had no one to beta his work, primarily because he couldn't afford to spend ten hours a day at social networking, so little things slipped through — spelling errors, missing words, incorrect punctuation.

Bond gave him an incredulous look. "As if biometrics could keep me out," he said with amusement. "Even if I _didn't_ live with you, I wouldn't have much of a problem cracking it, would I?" He tugged Q into the bedroom, only releasing his hand once he had the door closed. Then he went to his side of the bed to get his tablet up from the bedside table. "Can you install a drawing program?"

"So you can —" Q shook his head, trying to wrap his thoughts around the idea that Bond wanted to draw slash pairings for fanfic.

No. Q backed up a mental step. Until just a little while ago, he'd never even imagined that Bond _knew about_ slash pairings _or_ fanfic. The idea that he was volunteering to draw them was just too much for him to comprehend.

"You know how much time I spend waiting: Waiting for a mission, waiting to get from point A to point B, waiting for the target to show up, waiting for intel..." Bond sighed and sat down on the edge of the bed, looking down at the tablet in his hands. "The tablet you gave me is incredible, and I can take it anywhere, but I'm not exactly a fan of _Angry Birds_. Maybe I could spend some of the time drawing again. Just to alleviate the boredom."

Slowly, Q crossed the bedroom and climbed across the bed to sit behind Bond. "You're not..." He shook his head and pressed close enough to rest his head on Bond's shoulder. "It's not exactly a conventional hobby," he admitted softly. "I've always enjoyed creative writing, but my talent was in maths and programming and engineering, and literature wouldn't get me into MI6, so I never did anything with it."

"Isn't that why you enjoy it so much now?" Bond asked, turning to press a kiss to Q's head. "It isn't life and death. It isn't under deadline. It isn't something you have to have reviewed or accepted by people with authority over you. It's just for fun. Besides, we're not conventional people. Why bother with conventional hobbies?"

The tension in Q's chest eased, letting him breathe deeply. He took away the tablet so he could get into Bond's arms instead. "I'll build you a new tablet, with a stylus," he promised, burying his face in Bond's short hair. "I'll get you a course on whatever image manipulation software you want."

"Something simple," Bond said, wrapping his arms around Q and pulling him down to lie next to him on the bed. "Especially at first. Do you have a favourite scene in one of your stories you'd like me to take a crack at for my first attempt?"

Q turned around to press his back to Bond's chest. "Sometimes the fans can get overly critical about —" He cut off and twisted onto his back to glare indignantly at Bond. "One of them told me the sex was 'unrealistic'," he complained.

Bond's laugh rumbled deep in his chest. "Sounds like a challenge to me," he growled, rolling on top of Q. "I'd suggest that you could just explain that you would know far better than them, but that wouldn't be nearly as much fun, would it?"

Q grinned up at Bond, amazed that he was fine with everything that had happened tonight. He knew they were both using his writing as an excuse not to address the elephant in the room, but that was all right, too. Once they made an important decision, they didn't feel the need to discuss it to death. It was only the little things that they'd debate for hours.

"So, you don't mind science bros?" he asked instead, tracing the lines of Bond's collarbones, fingers pressing against his shoulders. He loved everything about Bond, right down to his skeleton. Gruesome as it was, he had a framed X-ray of Bond in the office across the hall.

"I refuse to spend too much time being jealous of fictional couples, when it's me you've decided to marry," Bond replied easily. "Though I do have a very serious question for you."

The first half-dozen times Bond had thrown a 'serious question' at Q, it had sent him into a panic. And every damn time, the 'question' had been amusing or sweet or entirely irrelevant. Now, Q barely felt a twinge of anxiety. He dragged his fingers down Bond's arms, letting them find the dips between his muscles. "Should I get my laptop to research the answer?"

"Are all fictional character pairings the most ridiculous combination of names possible?" he asked, staring intently down at Q, who hid his startled laugh through long practice. "Stony? Frostiron? Thorki? I mean, honestly." Bond shook his head in disgust.

"Oh, absolutely," Q said in the serious, information-delivering tone he used on the executive branch all the time — usually when presenting a case for an increased robotics R&D budget. "Half the time, you can't even tell who they are. Destiel is obvious, but Sterek? If you don't know _Teen Wolf_, you're left thinking it's a name out of a sci-fi novel."

"_Teen Wolf_?" Bond asked in disbelief. "Please tell me you don't watch a show about teenage werewolves." Q couldn't tell if the note of imploring in his voice was faked or not.

Q huffed, though it came out edged with the laughter he couldn't hold off. "I've never seen a single episode. _Supernatural_, though... We may need to marathon that one rainy weekend."

"The one with the angels?" Bond asked, slowly settling himself on top of Q. He slid his hands under Q's shoulderblades and pulled him up to hold him closer. "My faith in you is restored."

"Never doubt me," Q said, before he nipped at Bond's shoulder. "Thank you for not thinking I'm strange." Then he grinned and added casually, "At least science bros is canon. I mean, they _drive off_ together. Stony is just wishful thinking."

"Canon?" Bond asked, moving his hands up to settle at the back of Q's head to tug on his hair. "What do you think our name would be, if someone wrote a story about us?"

The laugh escaped before Q could stop himself. "What?" he asked, grinning up at his possibly-insane lover. "Who'd want to write about us?"

"Well, no one, obviously," Bond said with amusement. "As far as the rest of the world knows, we're just exceptionally good-looking salesmen. But I like the idea of having our own name. Qames?" He grimaced. "Qond?"

Q flinched. "Please, no," he said, unable to hide his horror. Bond took a breath, and Q knew he was about to bring up Q's _other_ name — the one he'd erased from most every database in the UK. Quickly, he covered Bond's mouth with one hand to silence him. "No. _Nothing_ with _that_ name, either," he warned. "We wouldn't be _us_ if you weren't 007 and I weren't Q. Let's not mix them up."

Bond nodded, then raised his eyebrow, waiting for Q to remove his hand. Apparently Q didn't move fast enough for him, however, and he pulled back just far enough to nip at Q's fingertips. "00Q," he suggested when Q pulled his hand away.

"That's... actually perfect," Q said, knowing he was grinning foolishly, though he didn't try to hide it. He laughed and lifted his head enough to steal a quick kiss. "I'm impressed."

"Are you?" Bond asked. He rolled onto his back and pulled Q on top of him in one swift moment. "All right, genius. I impressed you. Now it's your turn."

Q's grin turned sly. He folded his arms on Bond's chest and snuggled down comfortably against him. "I'm guessing you didn't find my unpublished works folder. Want to read the next one I'll be posting? You might find it inspiring."

"I have an even better idea. How about I read your" — Bond paused and rolled his hips suggestively under Q without dislodging him — "favourite parts aloud, and we check to make sure they're realistic? Call it an editing session, if you like."

"You're perfect," Q said, leaning down for one last quick kiss. Then he rolled off Bond and got out of bed. "I'll get my laptop. And you'll want handcuffs for this. Could you find them? They're probably in the wardrobe."

Bond's laugh was equal parts delighted and anticipatory. He rolled off the bed and headed for the wardrobe, stripping his shirt off as he went. "Anything to help encourage the muse." He opened the doors to the massive wooden wardrobe that looked capable of hiding Narnia in the back. Bond shuffled around for a few moments before he straightened and half-turned to Q. "Wait. Why _exactly_ do we already have police-issue handcuffs in with our clothes?"

Q laughed. "As if I'd be foolish enough to put you in police-issue handcuffs. They're ones I made," he said, and grinned at Bond's startled expression. "I'll get the laptop."

Bond looked like he wanted to say something, but he kept his mouth closed as he watched Q move away. His expression had changed from startled to impressed, and he went back to searching for the cuffs without hesitation.

"Oh. James?" Q called as he reached the door.

"Yes?" Bond called back without turning around.

"You can plan the ceremony. I'm better with technology," Q said, and escaped before Bond could protest.

The sound of wicked laughter echoed behind him.


End file.
